The Tatja Grimm's World

by Vinge, Vernor

  “Why don’t you come out to the Barge with us tonight. We’ll show you around.” She looked straight into his eyes. The men with her watched carefully, too. They couldn’t talk here.

  “Okay.” Svir set Ancho on his shoulder. They stood and worked their way to the door. The music and party sounds faded as they descended the ancient stone stairs that led from Highrock to the wharves of the Krirsarque harbor.

  There were people waiting by a lander. Soon the silent crew was paddling them out to sea. Apparently the landing was a secret. It was well into the night sleep period and no other craft were moving. A breeze swept across the water, splashed luminescent algae into the boat. The crew shipped their oars and raised a sail.

  Half an hour passed. No one spoke. Ancho shivered quietly, fearful of the water. They left the glowing waters of the harbor behind. It was cloudy, so even the light of Seraph was denied them. Gradually Svir convinced himself there was a greater darkness on the water ahead of them. And then he was sure. The huge pile of the Tarulle Publishing Barge rose tier upon tier out of the ocean. Beside it floated the smaller forms of scout hydrofoils. All were without lights.

  They pulled over to the hulk, and a group of company sailors hauled the little boat into a lighter bay. A section leader saluted Maccioso. She said, “XO’s compliments, sir, and no exterior activity noted.”

  Maccioso returned the salute. “Have him take us out past the shelf.”

  Svir was escorted up a zigzag of stairs, into the heart of the vessel. They entered a luxurious, brightly lit room. Just maintaining the algae pots must have cost several man-hours a day. The five seated themselves around a table, on which was fastened a detailed map of Bayfast, the capital of Crownesse.

  “This must all seem a bit melodramatic, Svir,” spoke Tatja, “but Tar Benesh has an efficient spy system extending from Crownesse on the Continent all the way to the Osterlai Archipelagate. The regent is ambitious without limit. He—”

  Ancho began nibbling at the map. As Svir pulled him back, the animal keened an almost inaudible whistle. For an instant everyone in the room felt stark terror. Then Svir patted the little animal, and the dorfox relaxed. The feeling of panic disappeared. Ancho turned his large eyes toward Svir as if to ask forgiveness.

  Tatja smiled shakily. “Tar Benesh is an extremely intelligent, capable individual. He is also perverse … and mad. Since he came to power in Crownesse, he has been a collector of Fantasie. We believe that, to enhance the value of his collection, he has sabotaged the others.”

  “We know for a fact that he has destroyed other collections,” Brailly Tounse interrupted.

  “Every five years Benesh holds the Festival of the Ostentatious Consumption. You may have heard of it …”

  Svir gulped. “You’re not telling me that the Fantasie collection is going to be one of the sacrifices?”

  Tatja nodded her head slowly. “Yes, that’s it exactly. The Festival is scheduled to begin ten days from now. We plan to arrive in Bayfast on the night wake period of the Consumption.” She gestured to the map of the Bayfast area and the detailed floor plans of the Crown’s keep. “I can’t go over the details of the plans now, but we are going to try to save that collection. Our magazine has the unconditional backing of the entire Tarulle Company—” she glanced at Maccioso “—in this venture. It’s not going to be easy. But I think we could succeed if we had Ancho’s help. And we need you too. You know Ancho best, and can persuade him to cooperate.”

  Svir glanced down at the little mammal, who sat licking his paws, unaware of the plans being made for him. “Yes,” he answered, “dorfoxes are strange that way. It takes years to gain their loyalty.”

  “Svir, this will be dangerous. But we need you. And some of the stories Benesh has exist nowhere else. Will you come with us and help?” She was pleading.

  Svir suddenly realized what he was being asked to do. He could get killed—and all for some magazines. Before now he had been uneasy at the mere thought of traveling to Crownesse, and now he was going to risk his life in a plot against the government of that country. Some sensible element within him was screaming No, no, no! But he saw the pleading in Tatja’s eyes. He was hooked. “Yes,” he quavered, then continued more strongly, feigning confidence, “I’ll do anything I can.”

  “Wonderful!” said Tatja. She stood. “You’ll want to go ashore and get your stuff together. Ked will have a boat take you back.” The group left the room and walked toward the outer hull. About halfway there, Tounse and Ramsey left them for the typeset area. The walk gave Svir time for some heart-stopping second thoughts. He had a vivid imagination and it was working overtime now. Ancho responded to his fright, moving nervously on his neck.

  They reached the landing bay, and Maccioso went off to get a crew. Tatja turned to Svir. She grasped his hand gently and moved close. “Thank you, Svir. Fantasie is the most valuable artwork in the world. I want to save that collection very much.” She slipped her arms around him. He felt her body against his, her lips against his. His fears and half-conscious plans to junk the whole project were erased. He would be back.

  SEVEN

  It was well past midmorning. Svir stood, with Ancho on his shoulder, at the edge of the deck that reinforced the barge’s bowform. Tatja had said she’d meet him here and take him on a tour.

  The Tarulle Barge was especially impressive by day. Over the centuries, it had grown without any overall plan. New barge platforms had been added and built upon, then built over again until the mass resembled nothing so much as a man-made mountain of terraces, cupolas, and cranes. The rigging and much of the hull were of spun glass—the most modern construction material. Yet some of the inner hulls were braced by timbers three hundred years old. From the top of the main mast to the bottom of the lowest hold was almost three hundred feet.

  Now the filmy sails were stretched taut as the barge tacked across the Monsoonal Drag that blew steadily off the Continent.

  Svir grabbed the railing to steady himself in the wind. Just looking up at those masts was enough to make him dizzy. He turned back to the ocean, the whitecapped waves that stretched out to the horizon. Two company fastboats cut through the farther waters as they sailed out to minor ports of the Chainpearl Archipelagate.

  And the Tarulle fleet was not alone on the main. Svir could pick out three cargo barges at various distances. The Chainpearls lay along one of the busiest trade routes on Tu. For all their cultural importance, the publishing lines accounted for only a small fraction of total ocean tonnage. Most publishing enterprises were operated landside, and contracted with shipping companies to serve other islands. Relatively rare were the huge publishing barges, like Tarulle, which toured the entire world and printed a variety of books and magazines.

  “Hey, Svir!” Tatja’s voice came clearly over the wind. He turned to see her striding toward him. Her hair was caught in a soft reddish swirl tied with a clip to the front of her tunic. The wind blew it back and forth to caress the side of her face. She seemed small and delicate even in her coveralls, but when she came near, her eyes were level with his. Her smile sent a long shiver down his spine.

  “I’m sorry we couldn’t get together earlier in the morning,” she said, “but things are really moving around here. The Chainpearl run is always the busiest of the circuit, and when we have monsoon winds, every press is running at the breaking point.”

  “Uh, that’s all right; I’ve had plenty to see,” he replied. As a matter of fact, the wake period had been something of a bore so far. Since lunch he had wandered about the decks. The crew was distinctly hostile toward nonessential personnel. His ears still burned from insults received when he walked in a door marked TRIPULATION ONLY. These people weren’t really stranger-haters. They just didn’t want nonprofessionals messing up their work.

  Tatja reached out to pet Ancho’s neck fur. Ordinarily the little animal didn’t enjoy being fondled by others, but he had taken a shine to Tatja. He didn’t retreat from her hand, and after a moment began purrin
g satisfaction. “Hello, Ancho. You don’t look a bit seasick … . Keep a careful hold on him, Svir. Some of the areas I’ll show you could upset him. But I want to see how hardy he is.”

  Ancho had recovered from his initial fear of sailing, though he clutched at Svir’s shoulders more tightly than was necessary to maintain his perch. Dorfoxes came from a single island far around the world. They were long-lived and relatively infertile. Most became mortally seasick when taken aboard a ship. Ancho was an exception. Betrog Hedrigs, the great explorer and Svir’s grandfather, had brought the animal to Krirsarque forty years before. Ancho was probably the only dorfox in the Chainpearls. Perhaps it was just as well, for if dorfoxes were common, they would have turned society upside down.

  Svir and Tatja descended two flights of stairs, to the vat holds. This was a different world: the inside of a claustrophobe’s nightmare. The wind was no longer audible, but there was an ominous creaking from the hulls. Dim orange light filtered from half-dead algae pots. Worst of all was the smell. Svir had been raised near the ocean, and generally enjoyed the odors of the sea. But here, the essence of those smells was being distilled.

  Some of the workers actually smiled at them: Tatja’s presence was safe conduct.

  Tatja pointed to where the water was coming through the bow-form. “The whole papermaking operation runs at just the speed that water can flow through these hulls. Not much vegetation in this part of the sea—that’s good for the fastboats, and bad for papermaking. It’s still worth seeing, I think.”

  The seawater flowed through the underpart of the barge like a subterranean river. Narrow catwalks hung inches above the dark water. Every forty feet they had to climb up a short flight of steps and then down again, as they moved from the hull of one barge platform to the next. They walked about two hundred feet through the gloom. Svir admired the graceful way Tatja moved along the catwalk, and cursed his own fearful, halting pace. Below them, the channels narrowed, and the stench of concentrated seaweed was overpowering. Workers dribbled reagents into the sludge, thickening it even more as it approached the pressing drums and its new life as paper.

  Tatja. gave a running account of what was going on. She also kept a close eye on Ancho for any signs of nausea or disorientation. But the dorfox seemed quite calm. It was a different story for Svir. The stench was beginning to get to him. Finally he asked, “How can the hull take these chemicals? I should think it would rot inside of a few quarters.”

  “That’s a good question,” Tatja responded. “The processing seems to have just the opposite effect. The carbonates in this sludge seem to replace the wood fiber. Over the years, the timbers actually become stronger. And what we discharge beneath the hull is so concentrated it kills any parasites that might nest there. Oops!”

  She slipped on the walk. Svir’s arm reached out and grabbed her waist as Ancho caught for his hair. The three of them teetered precariously for a moment. Then Tatja laughed nervously. “Thanks.”

  Svir felt obscurely proud. He might move more slowly than she, but when it came to a test, his caution paid off. He didn’t remove his arm from her waist.

  At last they reached the stern. Here the remaining water was pressed from the bleached sea mass, and the paper was actually formed. The fine sheets hung for several days before they were wound about drums and taken up to printing. They walked up to the next deck, where tons of newly printed magazines were stored. Here there was only a faint musty smell. Thank the gods the final product didn’t smell like seaweed.

  Tatja hung close on his arm and became more talkative. The Tarulle Company put out five different magazines every eighteen days. Fantasie and a couple of vice magazines accounted for three hundred thousand copies per issue and provided the bulk of the Tarulle income. Since some copies were stocked for as long as two years before they were sold, the barge carried two hundred tons of magazines. Over the centuries, it had been a race to keep up with world population increase. The barge was ten times as large as its first platform. All the latest machinery was employed. But even with increased landside printing and the prospect of automatic typesetting equipment, they were still falling behind.

  They came to one of the loading slips. The sound of the wind was strong; beyond the huge hole in the hull was a bright panorama of sky and sea. A fastboat was moored here, its sails reefed and booms raised. A fifteen-ton load of magazines was being hoisted onto the hydrofoil by one of the barge’s cranes.

  They watched the scene for several minutes. Finally the operation was complete, and the boat pushed away from the barge. Its booms were lowered and the boomsails—like sheets on a clothesline—were hung out. As it moved out of the barge’s wind shadow, it gathered speed, and the booms tilted into the wind. The whole affair lifted up on the slender stilts of its hydrofoils, and the boat moved away at nearly forty miles an hour. Then the barge’s crewmen closed the loading port and everything was dim again.

  Tatja frowned. “You know, I’ve always wondered why they tilt the boomsails like that.”

  Svir grinned broadly and gave her an explanation of Dertham’s pressure theories, complete with an analogy to tacking. Her eyes showed scarcely concealed admiration. “You know, Svir, that’s the clearest explanation I’ve ever heard of that. You ought to write it up. I could use some decent articles.”

  “Okay!” said Svir. Then he noticed the dorfox. “He’s glazing over,” he said, indicating the animal’s eyes.

  Tatja agreed, “So I see. We better cut things short. It’s almost supper time anyway. Let’s take a quick look at the print deck, and leave the editorial offices for later.”

  They went up another stairway and entered a low room filled with noise and whirling machinery. Svir wondered if all vessels were this crowded. It destroyed the romantic air he had always associated with far sailing. He kept a close hold on the dorfox and petted him comfortingly. This was no place for Ancho to run about unprotected.

  There were two printing presses in the room, but only one was in operation. At one end of the machine, a yard-wide roll of seapaper unwound and slid between rotating drums. The upper drum was inked, and with every swift revolution it pressed print on at least twelve feet of the flowing paper. Beyond this first pair of drums, a second pair did the same for the underside of the sheet. The paper finally moved under a glass flywheel that chopped it into neat, yard-square sheets that landed in a small dolly, ready to be taken to the cutting and binding section. The machine was driven by a spinning shaft that connected to windmills outside.

  One of the printmen looked up angrily and started toward Svir. Then he noticed Tatja, and his manner changed. Up close, Svir saw that the inkstained face belonged to Brailly Tounse. “Day, ma’am,” Tounse shouted over the din. “Anything we can do for you?”

  “Well, if you have a couple of minutes, could you describe your operation, Brailly?”

  Tounse seemed momentarily surprised, but agreed. He took them down the print line and traced the progress of the paper through the machine. “Right now we’re doing almost five thousand impressions an hour; that’s about one hundred thousand pages after cutting. Sometimes we go for days scarcely idling, but when we move into the Drag we have to make up for every minute of it. I’m pushing these machines at their limit now. If you could get us a hundred ounces of iron, Miss Grimm, we could make more steel bearings, and run these things as fast as the wind can blow.” He looked at Tatja expectantly.

  She smiled and shouted back, “Brailly, I’ll bet there isn’t a thousand ounces of iron in the whole barge.”

  Svir was confused. Since when did a printmaster ask an editor for mechanical help—and for something as ridiculous as iron! Perhaps the fellow was just teasing, though he certainly looked serious enough.

  Tounse grimaced, wiped a greasy hand over his bald head, leaving a broad black streak. The man was obviously exhausted. “Well,” he said, “you might stick around and watch us install new boards on the other machine.” He waved at the idle printing press.

  Tou
nse’s crew brought in sheets of rubbery printboard. The elastic base made it possible for them to stretch the type across the drum and fasten down the edges. The dur-sap type gleamed dully in the light. In a few moments it would be black with ink. When the first sheets were properly tied down, the workers moved down the line and tacked four more on the underside press, Then they hand-fed twenty feet of paper through the machine.

  Tounse nodded to the man at the clutch. The gearing engaged. Perhaps the fellow released the clutch too fast. Or perhaps the gearing was fatigued. Whatever the cause, the machine was transformed into a juggernaut. Gears splintered and paper billowed wildly about him. The first print drum precessed madly and then flew off its spindle, knocking Tatja and Tounse against the first machine. The glass blade at the far end of the room shattered, and slivers flew everywhere. Whirling chaos lasted several more seconds.

  Tounse seemed on the verge of breaking down himself: he had schedules to keep. Svir stepped around the wreckage to help Tatja.

  “Svir—where’s Ancho!”

  The dorfox was gone. Tatja bounced to her feet and swore. “Tounse! Forget your damn machines. We’ve got to find that animal.” Soon Tounse and his whole crew were searching the print deck for Ancho. Svir wondered briefly if the dorfox could be deceiving them with an “I’m-not-here” signal. Ancho hadn’t pulled a trick like that in five years, though gran’ther Hedrigs claimed it was the dorfoxes’ most common defense in the wild. If Ancho had not been killed in the mangle, he was probably scared witless. Panic would drive him outside and to some higher deck.

  Svir left the others and ran outside. He glanced quickly about and ran up to the next level. Soon he had reached a deck of masts and windmills. He stopped, gasping for breath. From the sails and rigging above him came a continuous, singing hum. He was alone except for a single sailor in a short semiskirt. She was climbing a rope ladder that stretched down from the tallest mast. Svir wondered what she was doing. The rigging should be adjustable from the bridge; besides, it was too windy to climb safely. Then he looked past the girl. Almost forty feet above her, he saw Ancho’s furry form. Svir ran toward the mast.